Caribbean Crossroads

by Connie E Sokol

  Jillian had said, “You’re on a cruise ship. He’s going to see you in a swimsuit. Though honestly, I have no idea why you care, as you’d look gorgeous in a paper bag.”

  Megan couldn’t explain the truth—the swimsuit rating scale, the way Jackson had looked at her sometimes when she wore one.

  She fought down a burst of humiliation. Men.

  Well, she wasn’t going to give up being herself and the swimming she loved, but she would do it on her own terms. Alone. Quickly resurveying the empty echo-sounding pool room, Megan took off her cover up just as the door banged open.

  “Top o’ the mornin’,” Bryant said, walking straight to where she stood.

  Not possible!

  Furious, Megan stared in open anger at his face, trying to ignore his taught bare chest as he put down his key and took off the towel from around his neck.

  He looked up at her. Megan flushed involuntarily, feeling practically naked. With his arrogant smile he said, “About that swimsuit—”

  That’s it. Megan felt something lash out from inside. She didn’t care what she said, that knowing smirk was going to get wiped off his face.

  “All right, surfer boy, let’s get this straight, right off. I’m not Talia, okay, or Mahalia, or Brittany, or even Betty Boop. This is what a real woman’s body looks like, it’s got some curves to it, and it’s not drug-addict thin. It’s strong, and supple, and healthy, and about mid-day it gets a little poof right here around the middle no matter how many sit ups you do. So just to be clear—I will never have a bimbo body and I’m sick of hearing and feeling like I need to. And if you think you can sit in judgment like one of those bachelorette shows, let me tell you, buddy, you are—you are wronger than wrong.”

  “Wronger than wrong?”

  “That’s right, and I don’t care how bad the grammar is. So long as we understand each other. And whatever little comment you were about to make, you can just swallow it, right along with your whale-size ego.”

  Megan’s chest rose and fell but he just stood there. Then he picked up his towel. “I was just going to say that your price tag is still on.” He took his key and walked out.

  Megan looked down and sure enough on her shoulder strap was a price tag for $69.99. She wanted to crawl under the ship.

  ***

  Megan walked cautiously toward the Green Room, checking her watch. She was a good forty-five minutes early, giving her time to dress and think of a sincere apology for Bryant, but without making her sound too vulnerable, or interested, but appropriately remorseful. She was sorry and embarrassed but she dreaded talking with him face to face. How could she even begin to explain her behavior?

  Gurgles sounded in her tummy—she couldn’t tell if it was from nerves for the evening or from her thoughts. Opening the door she stopped short—Bryant turned in the folding chair, holding a letter, his expression was as shocked as hers.

  “What are you doing here?” said Megan, unable to withhold it. Of course she wanted to apologize, but first to figure out what to say.

  “Do I need a reservation?”

  “No, but for heaven’s sakes, you don’t need a lot of—” she was about to say makeup but it sounded strange—“costume changing.”

  “I wanted to think, some peace and quiet.” With his foot he pushed out a chair for her to sit on.

  Megan debated—each interaction so far had been way too close despite her best attempts to stay distant. Cold and distant was not her usual way. Pretending to be was even harder. Especially with him. For months she’d been able to stiff arm any feelings she didn’t want to feel but he had a way of softening her, without her permission. Then, remembering her need to apologize for the Swimsuit Incident, she instantly felt contrite. But then, wasn’t she supposed to be winning Round Two? Sarcasm and fight?

  Okay, contrite was good. But with an edge of sarcasm. Right after she apologized. Megan sighed inwardly. Before she could confuse herself further, she strode to the chair. She’d just have to wing this. “Peace and quiet? And you can’t find that in a four-person bunk room?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Who’s the letter from—one of your many adoring fans?”

  “All over sixty.” He looked at the letter. “Just my family.” Again, the bitterness.

  “And they still write actual letters? It has to be from your mother.” His expression remained pensive so she stopped being light. “Is it bad news?”

  He folded up the letter and stuffed it back in the envelope. “No, it’s not bad, not for them at least. It’s about my post-cruise life.”

  “So after the summer dancing extravaganza, you go back to a real job like the rest of us?”

  “Why, is your temp agency hiring?”

  “No, I mean cruise singing is great and all that, but don’t you want to graduate from the Mickey Mouse Club?”

  Too sarcastic. She knew as soon as she said it. He just looked at her.

  “Sorry.” And she meant it. What was it about him that made her defenses go on alert? She took an imperceptible breath. It was now or never.

  “Bryant, about earlier . . .” For a moment the thought came to her that she liked saying his name. “About the swimsuit diatribe . . .”

  His mouth upturned slightly.

  “I don’t know how to explain this, but, it had nothing to do with you. As if you couldn’t tell.”

  “Yeah, I think I got that message.”

  Megan smiled deprecatingly. “For some reason, I don’t know, well, I kind of do, but it’s hard to explain, that I feel sometimes, let’s say the tiniest bit hostile toward you.” She could feel her face reddening, which made her speak faster. “Which is very odd because that’s not my nature, really. And I find myself saying or doing very unusual things, that don’t make sense to you, I’m sure, and most of the time not even to me.” She blew out a small breath, watching his confused face. “There’s just so much that I wish I could explain that would make sense why I said what I did. But I just can’t.” Megan wanted to add not yet but simply shook her head. “You’re . . . a really nice guy.” She felt the redness spread to her ears. “And I am sorry for being rude. And treating you like a disease. And making you feel like you’re always doing something wrong.” Megan paused. “Did I miss anything?”

  “No, I think you’ve hit them pretty much on the head.” He leaned forward. “I don’t want anything from you, Megan. Just a chance to get to know you. So if we can call a truce, I’m all for it.”

  “A truce, yes. Getting to know me, I’m not so sure.” It had been said with a lightness but she could see his expression. He knew a five-minute conversation wouldn’t lower her guard that much. “Anyway, I wanted to assure you, I’m working on eliminating all hostile responses. Truce officially signed.” She held out her hand.

  He took it and held it a moment longer than needed. Megan could feel his warmth and that flutter something went through her again. Immediately, she let go. Eyes on the letter in his other hand, she switched tracks.

  “You were telling me about your fan club?”

  Bryant leaned his elbows on his knees, a darker expression on his face. “Ah, the family. They have plans for me. And they’re anxious for me to get back to them.”

  “Plans like ‘American Idol’?”

  He smiled, but it was thin. “My family owns a lumber yard in northern California, very exciting career. And every letter they talk about two things: one of them being, when I will come home and take over the yard.”

  “I knew you were from California. So you surf?”

  “Northern California. By Mount Shasta. And I’ve never surfed in my life.”

  “Are you serious? But you look so, so surfer guy.”

  “I’ll be sure to hang ten on the stage.”

  Megan crossed one leg over the other. “But isn’t that a good deal, having a built-in job waiting for you?”

  “It’s a dead-end—no future. If I step one serious foot in the door, I’ll never get out. Then I’ll be just l
ike my dad.”

  Megan wasn’t sure how to take that. “Is that a bad thing?”

  He stared at the letter. “Not bad, just stuck in lumber. That’s his dream, not mine. Well, not that you’d call it a dream.”

  Sensing a hot button, Megan switched topics. “So, what’s the second thing they talk about in the letter?”

  Bryant turned his head, staring at her in a “Hello?” way.

  “Oh. The M-word.” Megan tried not to act awkward. “Well, it sounds like your family cares a lot about you—securing a job, marriage. And you’re being a dutiful son.”

  He spoke woodenly. “Forced respect. I got this job through my mom’s friend, she’s also big on the job and marriage combo.” Megan felt the bitter current running through his voice. “They both think it’s a great plan, and are pretty much vocal about it whenever they can be.”

  “That can be tough when two women are maneuvering you.”

  “Mom and Mrs. Weller are not just two women, they’re national governments. The term movers and shakers doesn’t even come close.”

  She looked at him sharply. “Weller?”

  He nodded, a wry look on his face. “Brittany’s mother.”

  “Got it.” Megan didn’t know where to look. Brittany’s mother was involved? Talk about complex. This little soap opera had Train Wreck written all over it. “So, Dad wants you at the yard, Mom wants you at the altar. What do you want?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. Trying to figure it out.”

  She stiffened. Red warning signals flashed all over her head. Twenty-seven years old and still singing on a cruise ship. Peter Pan Syndrome. Can’t commit.

  “You seem a little old to be undecided.”

  He looked up, his face darkening again. “Am I on a schedule?”

  “No, but I’d think you’d want to be. Unless your income is supplemented.” She had tried to be funny, but it hung in the air like frozen icicles.

  Bryant narrowed his eyes, his voice suddenly strong and bullish. “I told you, I’m here to please my parents. My mom sends me here,” he glanced around “to find a wife, like it’s an option on the buffet line. She thinks marriage will settle me down. My sister tells me. My brother tells me.” Bryant rapped the letter, his eyes hard. “They all think this little show place is great for me. And once I’ve settled down, it gets even better—I get to take over the lumber yard full-time. Wow, what a life. I hate it but it makes them happy, so for the duration, I’m here and making the best of it.”

  Instinctively, Megan knew the outburst had nothing to do with her. But she’d seen that same face and heard that same tone from a hundred temp workers. She sat up facing him squarely. “I don’t know about your life, Bryant, and I’m sure you have your reasons. But where I come from, there are a lot of people without a job. And in fact, if they had a job, or even an entire lumber yard for the asking, they wouldn’t be so quick to thumb their nose at it.”

  “What are you saying, I’m spoiled?” He leaned in toward her.

  “No, but it sounds like you have a good family who want what’s best for you. And honestly, I’m racking my brain trying to figure out why you don’t jump at the chance. You’re of age, and it seems like a sweet deal that’s ready made for you.”

  “Because maybe you don’t see the big picture.” He shook his head in disgust. “Just like my parents.”

  She paused, then stood up to leave, afraid she was too far into Temp Agency mode. “I’m sorry, Bryant, I’m sure I’ve misunderstood.”

  “No, you have something to say, say it.”

  Megan had seen this attitude before, a hundred times, and it grated on her nerves. Privileged guy, easy money, ready-made job and still whining about the injustices of life. She’d seen plenty of real injustices, of families scraping to feed their kids. But she didn’t want to get sucked into this conversation, not when she’d just apologized to make everything right. “It’s just, that must be it,” she said lightly. “Everybody else sees it wrong.”

  He rose too, all chest and shoulders in front of her, not content to let her walk, like he wanted to explain. “It’s not as simple as it seems. You think I haven’t thought these things through, like I’m some idiot with a microphone who doesn’t think ahead to next week? I know the reality of what they’re asking. And once I commit, the rest of my life is history, as well as my choices. I’ve seen my dad on that road and where it goes. No thanks.”

  Standing this close, Megan could feel his body heat but ignored it as she gave into Temp Agency assistant. “Bryant, all I’m saying is grown-ups do grown-up things, like move on purposefully with their lives, without a guarantee of fulfillment. You’ve obviously got some great options. Of course it would make someone wonder why you’re not taking them. But blaming others for not moving forward, or that they’ll pigeon-hole you for life doesn’t sound fair. Or mature.”

  Bryant’s blue eyes sparked, partly in anger but almost energized by her challenge. He searched her face for an instant before replying. “Wise words. But they don’t sound like they’re just for me, do they? What about you? Are you really here for the sun and stardom, or is there something you’re blaming for not moving forward? Or don’t want to face?”

  Stunned, Megan flushed with the reality of it and for a moment, couldn’t say anything. His words sounded too much like what she’d heard from Jillian. Had he been talking to her? Not likely. Awed and angered by his awareness, she wanted to scream—leave me alone!

  “What do you even know of me?” she shot back fiercely.

  “I’m guessing a lot more than you’ll let me.” He took her in—eyes, mouth, soul—making her feel wide open and shy at the same time. She rebelled at the connection between them, at the precise moment she yearned for it.

  No, thought Megan desperately. Fight! “Look, I’m not trying to be rude but—”

  “No need to try.” He wore a wry smile. “I asked for your opinion and you gave it.” Without breaking his steady gaze, he stepped into her. “Megan—”

  Her name—that warm liquid honey spread through her and she felt herself losing. “Don’t. Don’t say my name—like that.” She had to stop him, it was too close, too raw. This conversation was all over the place, moving too fast on too many levels. Megan scrambled to understand what was happening, feeling herself falling into something she promised herself not to. Any second now she would throw her arms around his neck and kiss him and hold him and tell him everything. What was wrong with her? FIGHT, Megan.

  “Bryant, I don’t—”

  The door opened. One of the cast girls entered then stopped. “Um, sorry. Am I bugging you guys here?”

  Suddenly Megan felt acutely aware of how close they stood together, breath rising and falling, energy intense and electric. How had she gotten here, standing with him, talking like this?

  Megan turned, her face hot. “No, I was just leaving.” She nodded at Bryant, who looked as if he wanted to say something then thought better of it.

  In the restroom, Megan splashed cool water on her burning face. What had just happened? Her heart continued to beat irregularly, and she drew a few calming breaths to settle herself down. Replaying the conversation in her mind, she couldn’t understand how quickly it had escalated. More than that, how close she felt to Bryant, how natural it felt to talk that way together, as if they’d known each other for years.

  Thoughts blazed in her mind of his intense face and solid body, pulsing and pulling her in, an astonishing electric current between them. That connection—how did he do that, his way of being with her, knowing her.

  Megan splashed more water on her face.

  Apology? Now she had bigger things to worry about.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Bryant brought down the barbell to his chest, then pushed up again, hard and fast, holding for four counts before returning it to the rack above him. It felt good to work out the frustration, at least of the encounter with Megan. He still couldn’t ease the confusing thoughts.

  He
had spent that afternoon performance between trying to forget their heated conversation and ignore feeling drawn to her. What was up with him? Why did he care? She didn’t even show interest. No, not even a lack of interest. An intense hostile dislike, she had said so herself.

  Until today.

  Standing in the Green Room, he could still see her flushed cheeks and serious brown eyes as she read him the riot act of Get on With Your Life. And she had been right. Actually, she had sounded and looked just like his sister. But different. He definitely did not view her as a sister.

  From the beginning he’d been drawn to her, but not in the typical way. Obviously, she was pretty—that was a given—but not in the Premier Performer style. In his mind he saw her straight chestnut hair, glossy in the sun, framing her face usually devoid of makeup. He liked it. It was fresh and real, not like what he was usually around. She had talent, yes, but not real star potential. And had a way about her that was soft, when she wasn’t aware he was watching. Talking in the hall with Rosa, helping Marvy with boxes, practicing the salsa with him. When she let down her guard, she was the real Megan, he could feel it.

  The salsa. He smiled, thinking about the way she’d fought him at first, then relaxed, then given in. The feel of her waist, her moving with him, the way she’d upturned her face and made the Fred Astaire comment before thinking.

  Bryant lifted the barbell and did another set of repetitions. Without guile. That’s how he really saw her, even though she did her best to show him a colder side. Strange that he remembered the phrase from the Bible. Stranger still that this girl who tortured him daily made him think of it. But at times, he could feel it, had felt it from the moment he saw her on the dock. Bryant shook his head, replacing the barbell again. She was a study in contradictions, most of the time like she was almost afraid. But that didn’t make sense as he knew she had spunk, and plenty of it. So what was she afraid of? And why was she here on a cruise ship? His comment in the Green Room about blaming something, or someone, had definitely hit a nerve. This trip was more than a favor to a friend. It had to be something about a guy, or maybe her family, but what? Whatever it was kept her at arm’s length, at least with him.